


At One's Pleasure

by Ladycat



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Bukkake, F/M, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-13
Updated: 2014-02-13
Packaged: 2018-01-12 06:08:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1182792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladycat/pseuds/Ladycat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I will do this,” Teyla says.  If anything, she looks interested at the explanation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	At One's Pleasure

**Author's Note:**

> A kink bingo square. See the end for more notes.

“I will do this,” Teyla says. If anything, she looks interested at the explanation.

John tenses, skin crawling with instinctive rejection. Pushing in front of Teyla is absolutely out of the question, but oh, he wants to. Instead, he keeps his eyes on the Headman. “That’s fine,” he says, pleasant as pleasant can be, “but we don’t agree.”

Behind him, Ronon and Rodney are the Pegasus version of traditional theater masks: one stands blankly forbidding, the other brilliant with appalled disgust. The interesting part is that their roles are reversed.

The Headman looks at all of them before lifting his hands in, as it turns out, a universal gesture for _but what are you going to do?_ “I am sorry, Colonel, but our customs require this.”

“They require _degradation?_ ” Rodney spits out. “Humiliation?”

John reaches back and grabs Rodney’s bare forearm, digging in until he can feel the muscles jerk in pain. Rodney doesn't even squeak. “What he means is that according to _our_ customs, this is an insult. A powerful one.” A muscle jumps in his jaw, echoed by the tension in Rodney’s arm, and he can’t help but find that reassuring. “It will taint any bargain we make.”

The Headman accepts this with a nod. His broad, open face shows only puzzlement, curiosity, as he gestures to Teyla. “But you have heard her agreement. If it is an insult, then should not her honor be most paramount?”

John swallows convulsively because if he doesn't, he'll gag. “Her honor," he rasps, "is _always_ respected. But you insult _our_ honor by asking us to do—to do what you asked.”

Teyla steps forward then, a graceful sweep of hair brushing back the cluster of men beside her. “Surely you have come across those who disapprove of your welcoming ceremony, Headman? Could not other arrangements be made?”

“It can be done in private, if that is preferable,” the Headman replies, dubiously. “Such concessions have been previously granted.”

It's not ideal, but this won't be the last ceremony they've faked their way through. Stepping forward, John puts on his best smile and says, “Great. That's just great. Why don't you go talk with the rest of your buddies, over there, and make it official? And then, in _private_ , we'll do your. Your ceremony. Okay?”

It's not okay. When the whispered argument across the table becomes more than hissing sibilant nonsense, John crosses his arms and plants himself in front of Teyla. It's a stupid move for any number of reason—he's can feel Teyla glaring the hair off the back of his neck—but it makes him feel a lot better, and after a few moments of John silently reminding the be-robed group that the Atlantians have the weapons _and_ the connections this group is so interested in, a concession is grudgingly granted.

Following a slim, nervous boy deeper into the keep, John takes a quick head-count of his team. Teyla is ignoring them which is probably a good thing. She'll wait until they're in private to accuse them of coddling her. Again. Ronon is close on Teyla's heels and John knows from too much experience that so long as she's happy, Ronon will calm down.

Rodney is an unknown. Just because John wanted him to pipe down, before, doesn't mean that Rodney _should_ have. In fact, John's pretty sure he'd been counting on an epic explosion just in case things didn't go their way. Maybe Rodney had figured that out? He's the one who wanted the ore this town mines so it's unlikely that he expects the team to just leave—right? Whatever the reason, he's still quiet no matter how tensely he rattle with each step.

Which is disturbing. The longer Rodney sits on something, the worse the final eruption.

But Teyla said _yes_.

* * *

The moment the wood door creaks shut Rodney whirls into Teyla's space. “Let me get this straight,” he snaps. “You’re _okay_ with this? I know that one man’s—okay, woman’s—kink is another woman’s sin, but are you honestly trying to tell me that this travesty of a hello is _acceptable_ to you?”

The relatively straight-forward delivery is the most glaring sign of all. Rodney is beyond agitated and well into _how quickly can I build a nuke to destroy even the memory of this place?_ He can’t stop moving, jittering and stumbling through steps that would’ve been pacing if he could keep his mind focused long enough. His eyes don’t leave Teyla as she moves to the center of the room, her back to them for the space of three breaths, before returning.

“Rodney.” She herds him with practiced gentleness, pushing him up against the wall so she can lean up on her toes. Their eyes still aren't level. “Do you know what my reaction was when the Headman first described their ceremony to me?”

“No, actually, I really don’t want to—okay, fine." Weakly, he says, "Tell me.”

“I thought it would be _hot.”_

And that’s really the end of that.

* * *

The room is well padded, at least. Blankets and cushions are like jewels scattered over a beach, bright and glittering above the pale stone floors that come with every room they’ve been in so far. John keeps to the far wall, just watching.

Waiting.

This is Teyla’s show.

It has to be.

“This will do,” she says, satisfied, standing on top of a rug, as blue as Rodney's eyes, in the middle of the room. “Ronon, I would like you first.”

Ronon doesn't blink or start, but there's a tension in his shoulders and a way that he tilts his head back that means he's uncomfortable. John notes it, and notes that Teyla notes it: which is the point, really. She's always imperious with them, when they're the four of them alone. He's used to that now. Hell, he enjoys it. There's something incredibly sexy about a woman who knows what she wants and doesn't play coy to get it.

But this is different. A hint of ritual, maybe, because Teyla loves ritual. A formality that erases the sting John can't forget, of hearing _that_ word said in such a calm, casual tone... Shivering, he concentrates on the center of the room again.

Ronon needs to be eased into this. Teyla is providing the means.

"Undress."

He strips efficiently, with short, graceless movements that end with his clothes slithering and thumping onto the rug beneath his feet. Teyla merely smiles at the challenge and beckons for him to approach.

"Take off my shirt, Ronon."

Rodney grunts quietly. "Clever."

"Shut up, McKay." It is clever. "Just watch."

Ronon is always worth watching, but more so with Teyla. No matter how rough their sparring session just ten minutes before, or how 'playfully' they fight like young lion cubs, as soon as things become intimate, his easy behavior vanishes. Ronon becomes gentle, strikingly so, touching her like she's made of spun-glass, ready to shatter the moment he presses too indelicately. Today, he begins by skimming up her arms, hands mammoth-looking against her petite frame, almost solemn as he slowly drifts back down to glide the tips of his fingers along the rim of Teyla's belly, riding the seams of her shirt. The ruffled purple edges curl under his fingers and he chuckles. "Hate this shirt."

Her laugh is deep huff of air. "I believe you lie."

"Don't lie. Takes too much energy." The mood is almost reverent as he carefully lifts her shirt, exposing her naked stomach to the setting sun peeking through high, narrow windows. Ronon takes his time as seconds pool into minutes before Teyla's hair finally settles back around her shoulders. Her eyes are half closed; no one alive can resistRonon's attentiveness and Teyla is gleaming with it. 

"You need not go so slowly."

Ronon kneels fluidly and leans forward to press an arc of kisses along the frets of her ribs. "Yeah," he says. "I do."

By the time Teyla's sturdy off-world bra is removed everyone in the room is breathing fast and shallow—except for Ronon. He is completely lost in the play of his fingers against her skin, each touch washing over both of them until all that matters is how else to make her rumble with pleasure. Ronon is pure instinct during sex: animal want balanced with human consideration and, as always, it's breathtaking to want. No one should be able to resist him.

But slowly, with jerky, confused intent, Teyla grips his dreds and finally manages one sharp tug. "The red cushion," she instructs. Her voice has gone husky and deep and the three of them shiver. "It will look good with your coloring."

Her words destroy the spell. Ronon is caught up in it still, but he still has Teyla's skin upon his lips. Rodney and John don't.

This is her show, John reminds himself sternly. There's nothing to rescue her _from_.

"Rodney."

Rodney starts even as he steps forward and still isn't completely balance by the time he rumbles to a stop. It's comical, or would be in another time or place. No one laughs. "Hi," he blurts. "Um. Look, before you say anything, I really think we should talk about this some more. I appreciate that you are very kinky, I mean, I _really_ appreciate that, but this—mmph. Mmmmph."

Kissing Rodney quiet has become a game over the last few weeks. Seeing it here feels wrong to John, uncomfortable given their surrounds, but it's still as effective as ever. Rodney's body is always a half-second slower than his mind so there are a few muffled words to kiss away until he suddenly _gets_ it. And starts to kiss back.

Rodney loves to kiss.

He's good at it, which is honestly irrelevant no matter how much they all enjoy it, because it's that pure, bright flame of pleasure that reels them in again and again. Rodney kisses like he does everything else: with nothing hidden or held back, each kiss searing past sex no matter how hot it might be. Rodney kisses like he never had those long, languorous hours of making out as a teenager and John—and Ronon and Teyla—is more than happy to be the recipient of someone else's stupidity. It's not unusual for Rodney to turn down sex if it means he gets to kiss just a little bit longer.

Especially with Teyla.

For a man who speaks so constantly with words and hands, his sincerity is found in his stillness. Rodney doesn't melt into the kiss so much as shift, a hand curved into the copper of Teyla's hair the only visible movement. John knows this kiss, though, has had it before and watching it now he can't decide if he's jealous or pleased. There's power in this kiss, so chaste and solemn that there's nothing but touch, the steady beat of hearts that echo into something more primal, more _devoted_ than John's ever experienced before.

A lover's kiss.

It probably happens gradually but to John the change feels abrupt. Teyla goes from initiating the kiss to just lost with it. She surges against Rodney, winding around him like a snake twisted with all of Eden's glory, crushing her bare breasts to him even as she maneuvers his thigh between her legs. Rodney responds by gripping her hips and ass to half-lift her body so he can kiss her more, open-mouthed and greedy.

Across the way, Ronon swallows loudly and it's all John can do not to echo him.

Teyla is sparing with her kisses. No one knows why, just that too long together and she'll wrench her mouth away, twisting so that the tempting line of neck is in someone's eyesight. For John, at least, it creates an added thrill when he can pin her down and kiss and kiss and kiss her—and to watch her kiss. With Rodney, who is a master of it, the feeling is even more intense. 

She's moaning, now, high and breathy as her shoulders finally relax, her entire body going limp as she trusts Rodney to hold her up. Rodney kisses with neon affection, something both more and less than lust and for Teyla it's like a drug. Maybe that's why she doesn't kiss often, John wonders, watching Rodney slide an arm under her ass, propping her more fully against his chest. If she views it as some kind of weakness, leaving her too vulnerable and pleasure-stupid even among those she trusts...

When Teyla finally breaks free it's with a low cry. Rodney is a study in reds as he pants, from the hectic flush of his cheeks to swollen lips that glisten. "Teyla," he says, so broken that John has to look away.

"Undress for me, Rodney."

John keeps his gaze averted. Rodney's intensity is powerful, that sun-bright focus difficult to look at too closely. Besides, he knows what Rodney looks like naked. None of them are attempting a show and John needs the darkness behind his own eyelids.

It's his turn next.

"Come here," Teyla says, once Rodney settles on his own cushion, hand extended to take his. It's as clever as all her opening gambits: he needs to be pulled and all of them know it.

Her hand is damp around his. "This isn't right," he creaks.

"John." Close enough that her nipples brush his arm, Teyla cups his face with her free hand and strokes her thumb over his cheekbone. "There is no wrong, not if we want it."

"I _don't_ want it, Teyla, I can't—"

The movements aren't sudden. There's nothing startling about this, but still John finds himself blinking in surprise. He's being _hugged_. Sturdy, strong arms around his neck, her bare skin against his chest even as she rises on her tiptoes to press her cheek against his.

"This isn't fair," he tells her hair. "All I get is this lousy t-shirt."

Teyla is familiar enough with the idiom that her smack is light. "I will tell you what they do not wish to hear. I want this, John. I do. I cannot explain why. I know I should feel as horrified as you three, but even that horror has appeal and oh, John, the thought of it—" She shivers, hard. "I _want_ this."

There's more, probably, but he doesn't need to hear it. It's irrelevant and always has been. "Don't say 'please'. You know you don't have to."

"It is polite, is it not?"

"Be polite to other people."

He can feel the crinkle of her smile against his neck. "Very well. Undress me, John. All of it."

Settling onto his knees, John takes a moment to just breathe. He's glad his task is physical; like Ronon, he needs the action to focus his mind. 

Her boots are tripled knotted. John starts there first, picking through loop after twisted loop until the laces abruptly unspool over his fingers. "Rest your weight on me." Once her fingers grip his shoulder, a casually intimate touch, John lifts her leg and carefully tugs off both boot and the sock trapped beneath it. Her toes glint once freed, a touch of mauve that is as incongruous on Teyla as when she first had it painted on, weeks before. John kisses the biggest toe, smiling when it curls under his lips. "Now the other."

Barefoot at last, John presses his forehead into her stomach. The scent of her is warm, woman and musk and the hint of incense that she burns once a week in tribute to her ancestors. He wants to nuzzle the breasts that brush against his head, but he's not sure if he's allowed. That wasRonon's part of the ritual.

He compromises with one kiss, cotton-soft and light against the rim of her belly-button.

Her pants and panties slide down the moment he eases them over her hips. John's used as a hobbyhorse a third and final time as she steps free, leaving her gloriously naked: clean-limbed and gleaming under their tripled gaze.

Smiling, Teyla strokes the hair away from his face and lets her fingers linger on his lower lip. "Now you, John." When he's stripped and naked, she runs a finger down his chest and looks up at him from under her bangs. "Show me."

Teyla doesn't do coy very well. She's too forthright to really use it effectively. But when she is playful, when it randomly just _works_ —John loves that. He'd do anything to see that.

John thinks, and then immediately discards, the idea of teasing himself first. He doesn't need to: how can he _not_ be hard and attentive when Teyla watches him so expectantly, wanting this from him? He starts by cupping his balls first, riding the heat and anticipation that curls up from his toes as he fingers directly behind them—an extra jolt just in case. His cock throbs at the pressure. Curling a fist around his cock seems to be the cue the others were waiting for, and as he strokes they match him.

Later, another time—and John hates himself a little for thinking about doing this _again_ —John thinks he wants to be the one in the middle. To watch strong arms flex and bunch, bodies growing warm and damp as they perform for whoever watches. It _is_ a performance. John is completely aware that Teyla watches each of them with almost disturbingly greedy intensity, licking her lips as red heads disappear beneath calused fists again and again.

He's aware that Ronon and Rodney watch him as much as he watches them, too.

"Yes," Teyla moans. Completing one rotation to look at all of them is like tightening a string: the more she twists, the closer they all shuffle. Her eyes are wide and wild as she flicks between the three of them. "Yes, oh, Ancestors, yes, this is exactly what I— _yes."_

Her desire is so strong John can taste it. Rich and musky, it's no less depraved than a moment before, but John finds his knees abruptly lock as he's swamped with a wave of pleasure. She _wants_ this. Her thighs are shiny and slick as they rub together, breasts heaving as she sucks in air, and there's nothing aritificial or forced about this. It's pure, animal demand and it leaves her almost unbearably turned on, nearly frantic, now that she's getting it. She needs it— _them_.

And they'll do anything for her.

Rodney moans first, as always. John shivers, moaning in unbidden reaction, because hearing his partner's enjoyment is something that never fails to excite him—and that, too, is a chain reaction. Soon they're all groaning or biting off harshly exclaimed words. It's sharing on yet another level, and none of it is loud enough to drown out the _rasp rasp rasp_ of three men frantically jerking off.

Teyla knows them well. When Rodney goes bright red, panting heavily through his nose; when Ronon's dreds start to sway to a particular rhythm; when John starts to pinch the base of his cock between each stroke, twisted pain to enjoy this just a little bit longer, that's when she falls to her knees and flashes them all a heavy-lidded smile. "Now."

Hearing the rumble of anticipation in her voice is the last goad any of them need. Ronon comes first, shuddering so hard he half-lurches into John. It lands on Teyla's shoulders, her breasts, and if John had any doubts left over they're gone now. Teyla looks incandescent as she arches up for more, moaning non-stop as Rodney adds his release, wet and sliding over the curve of her breasts, onto her stomach and dripping lower.

"God," Rodney moans and says, _"John,_ now—"

John comes so hard it hurts. He doesn't want to watch but finds he can't look away as he paints across her cheek, her nose, and oh, god, the fullness of her mouth—she's covered in them. She is wet and beautiful and dripping with tribute and _theirs_. All theirs.

It's the hottest thing John's ever seen in his life.

There's no cognizant decision to move. He just _does_ , falling to his knees so he can lick between her breats and up along her collarbone, back down to suck and nip at her nipples. Ronon's dreds rub hard against his stomach, taking his breath away and John doesn't care because Ronon's sucking marks onto Teyla's belly and he wouldn't disturb that for anything. Rodney is beside him and practically grinding his limp cock into John's hip as he goes back to kissing Teyla, fingers agile and learned as they slide past first John's mouth, then Ronon's, before unerringly finding the best place for them to be. It's awkward and uncomfortable—Rodney's chin is digging into John's forehead—and they don't _care_ , because Teyla tastes like Teyla and them and she's breaking, shattering between them with a high, sobbing moan that is the sweetest sound any of them has ever have heard.

* * *

"We should trade for some of these pillows," Rodney says.

"They _are_ nice," John agrees. "Firm. Supportive."

Teyla's laughter shakes the knotted tumble of the four of them. "Very well. We will trade for fripperies."

"Hey, it's good workmanship." Ronon demonstrates by tugging at the seams of the pillow closest to him. "See? No ripping. And it's softer than the military stuff we have."

John squashes down an irrational surge of defensiveness. The fabric _is_ softer than the military-issue bedding most of them still use.

"So, um. Far be it for me to ruin the moment, but, uh."

"Spit it out, McKay." John needs pants. If Rodney's using that tone of voice, he definitely needs pants. Except Teyla's got her arm around his shoulders and Ronon's lying on his legs and it's a little hard to move.

"We didn't do it right. I mean, the perverted Headman didn't really go into details, but if we're doing actual bukkake, and I am fully cognizant of how bizarre that phrase is since I'm pretty sure we're not going to run into the Japanese in another galaxy unless they came with us from Earth," he pauses to take a deep breath, "but be that as it may, we didn't do it right."

"I know," Teyla says.

John freezes with his toes just touching the edge of somebody's pants. "You know?" he repeats.

Teyla kisses their foreheads one at a time. "Of course I know. Did you think your female soldiers had not also brought porn? Next time, if you can have patience, I will clean myself up and finish the... ritual properly. Although I did appreciate your impatience," she adds with a lilting smile.

John can feel the way her stomach muscles are still quivering with 'appreciation'. He wants to protest that he really, really doesn't need to know about the pornographic tastes of his soldiers, male or female, but refrains. Teyla will probably retaliate with names. Instead, he kisses the edge of her bellybutton again and says, "Trade agreement?"

Teyla smooths a hand through his hair. "Yes, John. In a little while."

**Author's Note:**

> I don't have a lot of squicks left, but bukakke is definitely one. The politics of it are... pretty disgusting, forget about how messy the physical aspect. So the challenge for this square was to not gross myself out while writing it :)


End file.
